


Fragments

by fancyday



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Best Friends, Fluff, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, London, Poetry, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sick Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2018-10-22 14:18:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 5,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10698771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fancyday/pseuds/fancyday
Summary: (Very) Short scenes from Sherlock and John's life together.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a native speaker, so please feel free to point out any errors:)  
> I'll be posting about one scene a day for the next two weeks or so, and after that we'll see...

John stood at the window of their dark flat, looking out at the city. The yellow lights that are only ever found in cities shone everywhere in the darkness. It was a warm light, but also a lonely light.

It was cold, and John could smell the cold in the air. Suddenly he jumped and drew back from the window. He looked up and smiled at what had startled him. A white cloud floated in the cold, his own warm breath in the winter air.


	2. II

There were some things that simply weren’t done or said or worn. At first Sherlock had thought them necessary evils, but he had learned. They were dispensable. Even if doing without them, in some cases, caused inconvenience. 

Not to be worn: sandals, shorts, flipflops, ties, hiking shoes, rainjackets. Anything orange or purple. White shoes (with very rare exceptions). Trainers. Hats, if at all possible. Caps.  
Not to be done: look or act stressed or tired or anything less than perfect, especially when travelling. Move awkwardly because of luggage. Be in the way. Talk about Boring Things. Lie. If possible. Not know something you are asked. He used to think that drinking out of bottles belonged in this category, but that had proved untrue.

Not to be said: swearwords. And a few others that Sherlock didn‘t mention to anyone, although he mostly knew why he disliked them. They were words that appalled him, or words that were said by people who appalled him. A few were just plain boring.


	3. III

Sherlock didn’t lie. Unless. Unless the conversation would have become utterly unbearable by telling the truth. Even then he didn’t want to lie. But something inside him, in his stomach, would curl and twist and make it impossible to say anything but the lie, even if the words were there, and tell him that the lie was the truth, even if he knew it wasn’t. Sherlock wasn’t quite sure whether this meant that he lied to himself all the time or that he never did.


	4. IV

"Are you even aware that there is such a thing as malnutrition?"

"Vaguely. I live with a doctor, though, so such a thing could never happen to me."

"If you refuse to take the doctor with you when you're away, there isn’t much he can do, I’m afraid."


	5. V

Life was full of complicated little rules. No-one but Sherlock knew about them. Clothes had to be put on in a certain order (pants, trousers, shirt, socks, shoes, jacket, scarf, coat/ pants, trousers, t-shirt, dressing gown(, socks)). There was also a certain order in which clothing had to be removed (scarf, coat, jacket, shoes, shirt, socks, trousers, pants/ dressing gown, t-shirt(, socks), trousers, pants). 

There was one way, and one way only, to lay the table. 

Just John and Sherlock: John’s plate, Sherlock’s plate. Check if fresh serviettes are needed. If there is one that is fresh, give it to John and take the old one, if there are two fresh ones, give the first to John and take the second. John’s knife, Sherlock’s knife (blades pointing to the plate). John’s fork, Sherlock’s fork, John’s glass, Sherlock’s glass, the rest. 

Visitors: Visitors came first. If there were several visitors, it was necessary to sort them according to gender and age in order to be able to lay the table. Properly. 

Similar rules applied to putting freshly washed clothes away.

There were also rules for dividing one’s time: a bit of this until, say, five, then finish whatever you were doing and do – whatever it was that came next. 

He had tried to apply rules to what he read (every book on the shelf in the order in which they stood? New books first? Old books first?), but that had proved impossible even for him.

E-Mails needed to be answered in the order in which they were received. Unless a reply was urgent, of course. 

Sherlock wasn’t mad, after all.


	6. VI

Sherlock caught John’s eye and winked. John had to smile. Every time Sherlock’s sense of humour showed through his dignified, controlled demeanour, John felt heartwarmed.

Those were the instances when Sherlock suddenly seemed so human and (almost paradoxically, John felt) so much himself that John found himself wondering why he was the only one completely and utterly charmed by Sherlock at a very first meeting.

"It’s not actually funny, you know, Sherlock." Nice try at teaching Sherlock manners, John thought.

"Yes, it is tremendously funny," Sherlock replied. "Do you really think they still don’t know?"

"No, they don’t know, Sherlock, for heaven’s sake, they’re not you."


	7. VII

There was a new rule.

It had become necessary because of the cooking. Sometimes John would insist on Sherlock cooking with him ("So you realise not everyone always just orders others to procure food for them"), and Sherlock would do things like weigh the ingredients or fetch the eggs.

And there was the problem. There were ten eggs in an ordinary box. There were 120 ways of taking three eggs out of a ten-eggs-box. It was impossible to just take any, of course. Why make a rash decision when one had the energy and brains to make a perfectly rational one in the same amount of time? 

So the boxes were balanced. No dropping them because someone had removed all the eggs on one side in 221B.

When Sherlock took three eggs out of a box there was symmetry.

Of course, there was always the question if two should be taken from the first row and one from the second or one from the first row and two from the second. Sherlock usually took two from the side of the box where the hinges were attached. 

But that was an amount of coincidence that was just bearable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not really sure if the number is correct, if you know better let me know:)


	8. VIII

_"Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them."_ \- William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night

 

Now Sherlock was both the first and the second: he was born with a great mind, while he was gradually achieving a great character with much effort and help. John was the type who had "greatness thrust upon" him. An ordinary guy who had started dealing with difficult situations as a soldier and a doctor and found that he could manage. And that he was capable of helping Sherlock, which in turn made John rise to a whole new level of selflessness.

Sometimes John had a feeling that he cared more about a minute of Sherlock’s sleep than about his own entire life.

That was how John loved Sherlock.


	9. IX

They cared. For each other. Not just John for Sherlock. Mutual affection and worry.

"You okay?", that was John’s phrase. For example when Sherlock suddenly "needed air" or didn’t eat for days on end or when there was some sort of explosion.

"Are you all right?" was what Sherlock said. For example when John had shot a taxi driver.


	10. X

Alarm clocks, John mused, clearly weren’t designed for people who spent entire nights chasing criminals through London while trying to solve complicated thefts or abductions or murders. This particular class of people John had never known existed (and it was, admittedly, a rather small group) and which he found himself in now needed to catch up on sleep from time to time. 

Meaning that when Sherlock and John had been working on a case for several days, John sometimes deemed it necessary they sleep a bit more than the average eight hours.

And that was where the problem with the alarm clocks came in.

It was five o’clock on Sunday evening and Sherlock and John were going to bed (John had decided that Sherlock needed medical supervision.). The case they had solved today had been particularly complicated, and John would need to get up at seven the next day in order to get to work in time. The fourteen hours in between would be a poor substitute for four nights‘ worth of sleep. Still, John wasn’t about to miss out on two of them just because it wasn’t possible to set an alarm clock so that it would wake you in fourteen hours‘ time.

He sat on the edge of the bed, turning and turning the hands of the little clock barely visible through a haze of tiredness.

I want to wake at seven. I turn that hand to seven. No, it’ll wake us in two hours… think… what’s the farthest it can go? Five… No, it’ll wake us at five in the morning… I don’t want that…

Sherlock came in. He watched John for a few seconds, then raised an eyebrow. "John, it’s impossible to get more than twelve hours of sleep out of this kind of alarm clock."

John looked up at Sherlock, who looked, if possible, even more tired than John felt. "Damn it, then." He glared at the clock for a moment, then shoved it into some drawer.

"Right you are, doctor," Sherlock said as he got into bed.

When the only reply he got from John was the deep, even breathing of sleep, he added quietly: "Though you might just have used your mobile phone."


	11. XI

"John?"

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"I’m cold, John, I’m so ridiculously cold."

"Yes. I’d feared as much. You’ve lost too much weight. Let me see – I’ll find you another blanket, and some tea, and maybe – Mrs Hudson? Could you please make some soup? For Sherlock? Yes, just this once, of course." – He smiled at Sherlock. " _For Sherlock_ always does the trick…"


	12. XII

"Isn’t it remarkable, John," said Sherlock, "that there are no adverbs in German?"

"I’m sure it is. I’ll have to take your word for it, though."

" _Extraordinarily insane_ would be _außerordentlich wahnsinnig_. _Insanely extraordinary_ would be _wahnsinnig außerordentlich_. The meaning is defined by the word order."

"So if I wanted to describe you as either extraordinarily insane or insanely extraordinary, I’d have to use the exact same words and just turn them round?"

"In German, yes."

"How very appropriate," said John.


	13. XIII

"No, Sherlock, it’s _raining_."

"That is no reason to stay inside all day. I have a feeling that we will start to rot if we don’t leave the flat anytime soon."

"You’ll get wet."

"No, John, not since humanity has invented the umbrella."

"You’ll be cold."

"I’ll wear the scarf and the coat. It won’t be cold."

"Look, Sherlock, it’s the flu. You’ll be perfectly fine in a few days and then you’ll be able to go out again. Until then it’ll be best for you to just keep to the sofa."

"I hate the flu."

"Yes. Dull and very inconvenient, I’m sure, but not entirely new to mankind. Look, I’ve made tea."

"That’s… good."

"Yes. And I’ll stay with you and it won’t be boring at all."

"Why do you assume it won’t be boring if you’re there?"

"Tea, Sherlock."


	14. XIV

John looked at Sherlock. He was on the sofa, blanket, tea, sleepy. They had been on the case for two weeks. It was over, and the post-case high spirits were gone, too, and they were tired. 

"You should eat."

"I’ll fall asleep."

"You’re already dead on your feet, what does it matter."

"I don’t want to sleep."

Sherlock did not want to relinquish his hold on the world. He did not want to be pulled out of the complicated beauty of it all. He did not need sleep. He was pure mind, nothing that he did not want could happen, and if he decided not to sleep, he could stay awake all night and be perfect all night and again the next day. Food was gross.

John knew him too well. "It doesn’t work, you know. You do need to eat and sleep, and it will be much more dignified if you don’t wait until you collapse."

Sherlock ached a little each time John knew what he thought.


	15. XV

It is good that there is someone to remind him being mad is not normal, and to stop him acting madlier than he is. Sherlock is rather fond of his own eccentricity.

So is John, but John is able to differentiate between the moments when Sherlock is his eccentric self and when Sherlock plays at being eccentric.

So is Sherlock, but he will never admit it. He loves sweeping through rooms in the coat and making every conversation sound like a dialogue from a book and being too clever for his own good and suffering from being clever. He won’t admit that he really isn’t all that mad, and the boundaries between being and acting vanish, and thank god John knows where they are.


	16. XVI

_What Sherlock likes:_  
dressing impeccably  
typing fast  
running through London  
John  
their flat  
looking interesting  
being cleverer  
being quite mad  
not eating  
not sleeping and still not feeling tired  
London, and knowing London  
mixtures and connections  
chaos  
rain  
the sofa   
watching John impress someone  
deducing Sally  
making John laugh  
feeling like he’s in the centre of wind  
dancing  
music  
his violin

 _What Sherlock doesn’t like:_  
being told he‘s just pretending by John  
not knowing  
being looked after  
orange   
Mycroft’s umbrella  
Sally’s shoes  
new people / making conversation  
failure  
knowing he’s human  
knowing he’s been rude  
apologising  
people calling John his pet  
Mycroft alluding to incredibly interesting things he will definitely not tell Sherlock  
waking late


	17. XVII

Sherlock loves that John does not take his intelligence for granted. However often Sherlock shows his brilliance, John never acts as though he expects it. He remains conscious of just how special Sherlock’s abilities are. Everyone else, Mrs Hudson and Molly and Lestrade, expects him to be brilliant. They will admit that he is anytime, they admire him, but they do not talk about it. It’s just Sherlock, it is just there for them. And for Sherlock. But John always remembers, marvels, praises, and Sherlock is grateful. Because sometimes he actually wonders if he’s good at anything, because no one is surprised any more.


	18. XVIII

"How long did you sleep?"

"Five hours. Two to seven."

"Well done."

They shifted a little.

"Do you have enough of the blanket?"

"Yes. It would be easier to have two, though."

Once John had woken in the night without a blanket, his having been stolen because Sherlock had dropped the other one on the other side. John had stood up and walked around the bed and taken the blanket from the floor, once he had finally understood how his blanket had come to vanish. That had been when they had still had two, of course.

"Not necessarily easy. You tend to _acquire_ them either way."

"I don’t realise I’m doing it."

"I know."

Their voices were soft and tired and the light was grey because it was winter. They were lying on their sides, facing each other. It was strange to see each other from so small a distance. Like a magnifying glass. Their eyes looked luminous, their hair was a perfect morning mess.


	19. IXX

John loved Sherlock’s handwriting. If someone had asked him how he thought it would look before he had actually seen it, he would have supposed it was messy, thrown onto the paper impatiently, barely legible.

But when he had first held a page covered in Sherlock’s writing in hands, he had seen there was more to it than that. The impatience was there, yes, but that wasn’t all.

Writing mustn’t take long, of course, but Sherlock was also a lover of beauty, of form and aesthetic pleasure, and his handwriting wavered between these two poles, swiftness and elegance, combining to make the words look like a piece of purposeful, cool and practical calligraphy.


	20. XX

They were on the phone because John was away at a conference. Sherlock usually only ever sent texts, but John was his exception.

They had been talking for a while. Suddenly John laughed.

"What is it?"

"I just almost asked you if you wanted me to make you a cup of coffee."


	21. XXI

"I’ve just thought of something. I think I’m going to call your hair _Sherlocks_ from now on."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "This joke is invalid for etymological reasons."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning that, as the name is really derived from the word _lock_ , they both mean the same thing and therefore it’s not a pun at all."

" _Sherlocks_ , though…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to tereomaori for the Sherlocks!


	22. XXII

Sherlock loved it when John laughed about something he had said or done, and he loved it even more if he didn’t understand why John was laughing. It meant that he was different and did funny things, and that John liked him anyway. Or because of it.


	23. XXIII

Having a single small light on in the flat made everything look different. Some things were starkly highlighted by the white light and others were quite dark. Deep tall shadows were cast on the walls. He was reminded of photographs of old theatre productions. It all looked quite new.

Sherlock liked doing this, liked looking at old things in a new light or from a different perspective. Sometimes he would lie flat on his back on the floor and look at the room for a while. He would sit on chairs the wrong way round, write from right to left or upside down, read texts backward.

Once, when he had felt rather ill, he had leant against a wall and slid down to the floor. He had come to sit between two open doors and been instantly fascinated with the new perspective. 

He had also sat in all the wardrobes and cupboards in the flat he could possibly get into. John had just laughed, because John was John.


	24. XXIV

He should probably not have gone out at all. Blurred vision and a headache. Sherlock was ill.

He and John had gone a short way together, then they had parted. Sherlock had felt left behind. He did not know why. The headache and the blur got worse. The lower half of his vision swam and danced, and he left. Just in time, he thought later. 

The way back had not been good. People were loud, but muffled at the same time. Sherlock could not comprehend a single word they said. He could not even tell what language they were speaking. He did not have the patience to move out of their way. His head ached. He would have liked to close his eyes. His posture was less upright and his movements less swift than usual. He knew that. And he could not see. It was good that he knew the way.

When he arrived at the flat and had gone up all the stairs, unable to breathe, John was not there. Sherlock had known he would not be there, but the tears rose to his eyes all the same.


	25. XXV

John knew what a gift it was that Sherlock never hid from him who he was, what he thought. With John, he was Sherlock, and that was it, and John was aware that he was perhaps the only one who really knew Sherlock, and that he was lucky. And that was what everyone saw in their relationship: Sherlock opening towards a “normal person”.

But Sherlock was aware that this held true the other way around as well: He knew John, experienced all his facets, nuances, his moods. And it was not only Sherlock who never showed weakness to anyone outside 221B. When John felt a bit not good, it was Sherlock who got to see it, and he alone. And he felt it a responsibility and did his best, but most of all he knew it was a gift, and that he was lucky.


	26. XXVI

Sherlock loved London. Every street, every house, every square. He loved the lights and the sounds and the smell after rain. He loved the big places and the small places, the tourist places and the secret places, the grand places and the dingy places. He loved the inscription on a statue in the V&A ( _All my life coldly and sadly_ ), the one in St Paul’s Cathedral ( _Si monumentum requiris_ ) and the one on Primrose Hill ( _I have conversed with the spiritual sun_ ). He loved how many languages he heard, how many details there were for him to take in. Any glance in any direction brought a thousand new facts, and he loved it. He loved knowing London and knowing he knew London.

He loved it right down to the lampposts and the street signs and the Tube announcements and the graffiti in Camden Lock that said _I like the way u die boy_.

And most of all he loved London for the life he lived there. For deducing and being brilliant and chasing criminals with John. For some people in it, too. 

It was where he was, and where he wanted to be. A rare thing, Sherlock mused, and the plane he was watching crossed the night sky.


	27. XXVII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted separately as "One More Miracle".

**One more miracle**

Whisk me away  
Like the whirlwind again  
I want to see you  
Be with you again

Want to bathe in your quickness  
Your thinking, your running  
Want to take in your endless   
Complaints and your cunning

Want to go with you always  
Just watch what you do  
To see all of your wild ways   
See all that is you

Whisk me away   
Like the storm cloud again  
I want to be with you  
To see you again

The way you get restless  
When boredom begins  
And your arrogant deftness  
In insulting your friends

How you hate all the slowness   
Of those around you  
How you hate being lonely  
And never say so

Whisk me away   
Like the soft breeze again  
I need to see you  
Be with you again

Your smiles and your laughter  
And the sound that you make  
When you were right again after  
An impossible case

Your energy, impatience  
A constant surprise  
The way you would look when –   
But I won’t start on your eyes.

Whisk me away  
Like the whirlwind, the breeze  
Like the storm cloud, like anything  
That helps me to seize  
All the life and the joy I could reach out for and take  
Without you there is nothing, I just stand here and wait  
For the whirlwind  
To whisk me  
Away  
Again.


	28. XVIII

You’re mad. It’s in your eyes and your gestures and your handwriting. It’s in the way you move and in the words you say. You are mad, and you make others suffer for it. It’s even in your teeth and in your hair and in your clothes. It’s seeping through you. I don’t need you and your implications and I don’t need the idea that we are somehow alike. You are mad.

Aren’t _you_? Aren’t you even going to be? said the voice in Sherlock’s head.

No. Not now. Now John is guarding the edge you went over.


	29. IXXX

Sherlock was in a library, researching. Eyes and mind wandering. There was sun outside the window. It was autumn, and the people outside were wearing jackets, but still. Sun outside, on the columns of the library. People were sitting in the grass and lying on benches outside the window. A man with a little girl came walking by, and more people after them. A car. Then a little boy. Two years old, perhaps. Wearing jeans and a jacket with blue and white stripes. Large dark eyes. He wandered around between the columns, back and forth, back and forth, and Sherlock was a bit afraid he was lost. Then he stopped, gazing at the sky, eyes wide. He laid a finger on his cheek, started walking back and forth again, with that funny swaying, staggering movement peculiar to little children, back and forth and round the columns, pressed his cheek against the glass, not looking in, but along the glass, looking for his family? 

A parent arrived, but the boy turned away, turned to the glass again, now looking in, looking at Sherlock, wide eyes again. Smiling at Sherlock. And Sherlock found himself raising an eyebrow, then smiling back.


	30. XXX

Sherlock didn’t like people laughing about him. He never tried to be funny. He liked to be the centre of attention, but not in that way. He wanted to be looked at and admired and maybe also a bit feared, but he had no wish to make people laugh.

John, as ever, was his exception. For John he often phrased things in a way that was meant to elicit John’s laugh, the one that went all over his face and into his eyes. For John, in the flat, Sherlock added little flourishes to his gestures that would make them look comical, and hoped for a smile or a chuckle in return. For John, sometimes he would even attempt jokes and puns, though those worked least well. 

For John, Sherlock stole ashtrays in Buckingham palace.


	31. XXXI

“Really?“ John asked as Sherlock handed him a stack of books. “You’re going to read Iwein in Middle High German, Beowulf, the Metamorphoses in Latin and a lot of Plato in Ancient Greek? On a holiday to France? And what’s that – Sherlock, you don’t even speak Norwegian.”

“But I speak Swedish, and German, and English. I’ll deduce it.”

“Sherlock, you can’t deduce a language.”

“Yes, I can. It’s fun.” Sherlock could see the amusement making its way into John’s eyes behind the irritated disbelief. 

“And why, exactly, do you think that exactly those books will be the perfect holiday reading?”

“I’m saving room in our suitcases. You said not to pack more than I need.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Sherlock, how are five huge books saving space?”

“They’re complicated books, John. They’ll keep me occupied far longer than anything in present-day English could. I’d need about fifteen of your books to make them last as long as these five. That’s how they’re saving space.”

“You know that a holiday is, in theory, meant to be restful, don’t you?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“Of course,” John continued, “knowing our luck, a horribly complicated murder will occur in Antibes the minute we get there, and you won’t need a single book from your Ultimate Selection of the Most Complex Books Ever, because you’ll be too busy chasing criminals and making the French police feel stupid.”

“I was trying not to get my hopes up, John.”

John had to laugh.


	32. XXXII

He is dizzy. Things are spinning and Sherlock steadies himself, thrusting out his hand, too little sleep. Too little sleep for too long. He feels a little guilty. Shouldn’t have done that. Shouldn’t have used up the capacity for functioning perfectly with little sleep. Not at his best. Too sensitive to smells and sights and sounds, they make him nauseous, make him angry. He’s at home now, though. Safe. No intruding sensations, just the living room with all the familiar details he sees every time. The scratch on the table, the crack in the wall, the pearl under the bookshelf. Leftover from a case, no one can get it out, lodged fast under their shelf with a lot of dust. A pearl and a lot of dust, Sherlock thinks. It sounds like a metaphor, but he does not know for what. Maybe for John and him. John is a pearl, nice and neat, infinitely valuable, beautiful. And tough, hard to break, very. And Sherlock could be dust, motes, remote and diffuse and dancing and getting everywhere people expect no one to look. He lowers himself to the floor the better to look at the pearl and the dust in the darkness. It is night. The yellow city light filters in through the window, though, and the pearl reflects it, conducting the light, a conductor of light, just that. The dust has settled around it, so strange that such a fleeting light thing as dust, not even a thing really, should be able to settle. Maybe it wants to stay with the pearl, and the pearl is there under the shelf, and the dust will stay there too, with the pearl. Sherlock’s eyes burn and want to close and he can’t let them, because he’s on the floor, floored but entirely too tired to get up and into bed. So he watches the pearl, glimmering softly in the darkness, a city darkness that is not really a dark darkness at all, Sherlock knows it. There are much darker darknesses, in forests and beneath stars and sometimes in his mind, though these days a pearly glimmer illuminates all of his black. The door opens, finally, and now Sherlock will soon be able to go to bed, he will, but he needs to say something to John, returned, finally, bringing cold air with him and a sliver of light from the landing that makes Sherlock’s pearl glow. John frowns down at him, concerned, perhaps, irritated, perhaps, fond. And Sherlock’s vision is a little hazy, but he smiles up at John, did you know you are like the pearl, John? And John frowns and holds out his hand and helps Sherlock up, and the pearl stays there, under the shelf, with the dust settled around it.


	33. XXXIII

Travels ahead. I am packed. I don’t like the waiting. I like to do things just in time. I have four more minutes before I take my suitcase downstairs and set off, and then it will be a travel day. A good day. Movement and people. Good if I’m in a good mood. I am. Ready and packed perfectly. John is coming. He’s rubbish at packing, so I do it for him. That is, he remembers what we want to take and I put it in the suitcases. Sometimes I leave some things he wanted to take at home, though. Too much luggage is the main reason for horrible travels. Last time we were at an airport, I was ill. John was there, though. I remember feeling sick and not being able to breathe and feeling so tired. And I closed my eyes and I didn’t want to sleep. Had to remind my mind to stay away, stay awake. No sleeping at airports. Exposed. Conspicuous, despicable. Helplessly asleep when everyone around me is awake and moving and busy. Not good. So I didn’t. Wasn’t easy. Took some medicine, I never like that, the feeling of the pills in my throat, memories. So. Today I feel good, and ready to fly. Always good to be busy. The more I have to do the more I manage and the more concentrated I am. I’m at my best when I’m stressed. Rhyming now. And off we go.


End file.
